


Names Are Cloaks

by EllanaSan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Inquisitor (Dragon Age) Backstory, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), New Friendships, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - The Threat Remains, Qunari Culture and Customs, The importance of Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22944094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllanaSan/pseuds/EllanaSan
Summary: They can’t have that, she supposes, the Herald of Andraste being called names behind her back… The only way the situation could have been worse is if she had been an elf. She could tell the ambassador that there are people in this very camp disrespecting her at every turn but she is far too used to it to care. They call heroxwoman. They call herwitch. They call her chosen oryour worship. They call herTal-Vashoth.Names are weapons. For the bearer to hold and to wield.Names are cloaks. For the bearer to wrap themselves in and discard when outgrown.
Relationships: Female Adaar & Josephine Montilyet, Female Inquisitor & Josephine Montilyet
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	Names Are Cloaks

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago for my Inquisitor of the time and I never got around to publishing it... I'm not sure if anyone will be interested in reading but... Have it just in case, I guess?

“My lady Adaar.”

She blinks and glances up at the ambassador who stands there in all her usual glory, the soft dancing light of the campfire making the golden embroideries of her dress glow. Josephine Montilyet is just as puzzling as the spymaster or the commander, if a little less openly threatening. She doesn’t let that peaceful appearance fool her, though. She has stayed alive this long only by being wary of everything and everyone and she is not in a habit of underestimating the enemy.

Even if, at that moment, it is unclear if they _are_ her enemy or not. Probably not. The Inquisition had proclaimed her Herald, after all – whatever _that_ would come to mean for her.

“I apologize for disturbing you.” Josephine adds with an easy smile when the silence lingers for too long.

“Not at all.” she lies, gesturing to the empty space next to her.

Night time is usually her time. They just came back from Val Royeaux and that short stay has been enough to unsettle her deeply. They went to convince the Chantry to help and came back short of support but with a weird elf and an arrogant grand enchantress for their troubles. She has been looking forward to being alone ever since they set off for Haven that morning.

The ambassador hides her wince as she sits down and Adaar hides her own smile, ready to bet it has been a long time since Josephine sat on the cold hard ground without cushion or blankets. That’s what she enjoys about night time and why she jealousy guards it to herself. Building a campfire not too far from their troops’, watching the lights of the flames dance in the darkness, listening to the easy camaraderie of the soldiers… It reminds her of her Valo-Kas. She finds it comforting.

Cassandra has joined her once or twice after she finished her rounds and she decided she doesn’t mind the Seeker’s presence. They haven’t started on the best terms – the _execution_ talks weren’t endearing – but they’ve come to a silent understanding in the last few weeks. Cassandra knows how to be quiet and unobtrusive. She doesn’t ask painful questions and she doesn’t expect answers. Their friendship is barely burgeoning but Adaar has hopes that it is one that will turn out solid.

At least, if the Inquisition doesn’t turn on her.

“Is there something wrong with Smith Harritt’s work?” Josephine asks politely, resting her ever-present clipboard on her knees.

Adaar looks down at the staff she’s tinkering with – _crafting_ would have been a more appropriate term. The grip has been bothering her and she is carving a piece of wood to replace it. Haven’s grips are all smooth and don’t suit her big hands. Then again, none of the staves really suit her and she longs for her old one, regretting that it was more than likely destroyed during the Conclave explosion.

She doesn’t mind a bit of wood carving though. It calms her mind.

“He’s a blacksmith.” she simply answers.

Blacksmiths are good for blades and arrows but they are not masters when it came to staves and they’re sorely lacking competent people on that front. She knows Solas shares her opinion but Solas’ staff is well cherished and attuned to his needs. Perhaps now that Madam De Fer is around…

“I see.” the ambassador hums and maybe she does because she scribbles something in the corner of a piece of velum. “I have been meaning to have a word now that things have calmed down a little.”

Josephine’s smile is encouraging but that only serves to make Adaar more cautious.

“I wouldn’t say things have calmed down.” she remarks, her green eyes surveying the dark shapes of the tents around them when they weren’t focused on the knife and the flexible piece of wood in her hands.

Things are _far_ from having calmed down.

The sky is still torn open, they still aren’t any closer to closing it and people are still dying left and right. Her next order of business is to go back to the Hinterlands at dawn. Now that Cullen’s men are done with the watchtowers, she intends to go and inform Dennet of the safety of his lands herself, then she will do as Leliana requested and search for her Grey Warden. And if, along the way, they stop to make sure a potion gets from a wayward son to his mother or to hunt rams to feed refugees… _Well_ … There are recruits for those tasks and she knows she should focus on the big picture but that is where she feels the most useful and so that is what she will do.

She has an inkling Cassandra already suspects her intentions but when she has informed her they would leave the next morning along with Sera and Vivienne, the Seeker has only bowed her consent. Perhaps she is as wary of their new travel companions as she is but Adaar firmly believes she won’t get to know them until she gets them out in the field. Sera, she might get along with. Vivienne… Vivienne has made her opinions on her methods for learning to control her magic clear.

“A poor choice of words.” the ambassador admits. “Nevertheless, there is a point I need to clarify… There has been a lot of talks, as you know, and you being Tal-Vashoth…”

“I am not Tal-Vashoth. I am Vashoth.” she snaps. And perhaps it’s unfair because Josephine isn’t the first one to make the mistake. _Everyone_ calls her Tal-Vashoth and it is the first time she corrects any of them.

The woman startles and her gaze darts to the hands that still wield the knife upon the piece of wood, to the tendrils of electricity that run on her skin. Adaar takes a deep breath and releases it, willing her magic to settle down. It takes almost a whole minute for her to get her control back. She’s been far too unnerved lately. It is good they will be heading out the next day. She craves a good fight. Val Royeaux was all too political and Sera’s nobleman’s lapdogs weren’t enough to be a challenge.

“My parents were born under the Qun and left. _They_ were Tal-Vashoth.” she explains, willing herself to relax, to return her voice to a more pleasant tone. “I was born free. I am Vashoth.”

She knows without having to glance at her that the ambassador noted the past tense. Adaar wonders if she knows the story already. Surely, she must. She has never met someone as well connected as Sister Nightingale. Is there _anything_ that woman doesn’t know? Aside for whom is responsible for this whole mess, of course, _that_ would have been too convenient.

“I see.” Josephine says again. “I will make sure the distinction is made, I did not mean to cause offense.”

“It is a common mistake.” Adaar sighs, putting away her knife to start fixing a blade on the tip of her new staff. “To your people, we are all Qunari anyway. _Oxmen_.” She spits the words out with distaste and then shrugs. “We are not all the same.”

“The Inquisition will not tolerate anyone disrespecting you.” Josephine promises, as if that’s really the point.

They can’t have that, she supposes, the Herald of Andraste being called names behind her back… The only way the situation could have been worse is if she had been an elf. She could tell the ambassador that there are people in this very camp disrespecting her at every turn but she is far too used to it to care. They call her _oxwoman_. They call her _witch_. They call her _chosen_ or _your worship_. They call her _Tal-Vashoth_.

Names are weapons. For the bearer to hold and to wield.

Names are cloaks. For the bearer to wrap themselves in and discard when outgrown.

Her mind wanders toward the mercenary band’s emissary from earlier and a part of her hopes Bull’s Chargers will prove themselves worthy of being taken on. She wouldn’t mind having another Vashoth around – or a Tal-Vashoth for that matter. If there were more of her kind in Haven, perhaps people wouldn’t stare at her so much. Or maybe not. She is after all, their new prophet…

They burned the last one so she doesn’t find that very reassuring.

Josephine clears her throat and she realizes she has been silent for too long again. It’s habit really. She has a quick tongue when she needs to – or when her temper gets the better of her – but she tends to remain silent when she is not at ease in her surroundings or with her companions.

“I take it you are not a follower of the Qun?” Josephine asks and Adaar must give her that, she makes the question sound _innocent_. As if being a follower of the Qun wouldn’t have meant being watched and probably put under guard.

The ambassador’s brown eyes dart down to the red strings of her Antaam-saar expertly wrapped and knotted around her body. It is quick and curious and someone else might have missed it but Adaar is too used to being on the lookout for the smallest sign of troubles.

She knows her choice of outfit disturbs more than a few people. A few of Haven’s refugees, including the requisition master and Harritt, have tried to equip her with more… _humans_ outfits. Enchanter armors and apprentice coats… So many layers of cloths and fabrics that it’s suffocating. She wore wearing what was provided, at first. She hasn’t complained, not once, not even when the tunics were so difficult to slip on despite her broken horns, but it was such a relief to find the soft fabric of an Antaam-saar waiting for her in the cabin that was attributed to her one morning.

She supposes she has Sister Nightingale to thank for that.

She only feels like herself when she is wearing her armor of silk and strings, when she knots and wraps it the way her mother taught her to. She doesn’t mind the cold weather, her magic keeps her warm.

However, it looks too _Qunari_ and it only serves as a reminder that their Herald is not, in fact, one of _them_.

“The Qun doesn’t like mages any more than human does.” she retorts and she doesn’t even try to hide the bitterness in her voice. _The_ _pain_.

_Saarebas,_ a cruel voice whispers in her mind and she rubs her mouth before she can stop herself. The ambassador’s gaze is too sharp, it settles on the scar that strikes her lips. It isn’t the only scar on her face, of course, but it is the most telling. Thinner than the one on her cheek, in direct prolongation of the one on her nose where the needle skidded, its implication more telling than the one that cuts her eyebrow.

The horns, of course, are another clue. Sawed horns are a Ben-Hassrath’s signature. She doesn’t know if she’s lucky or not to have lost only one of them. Her left one was damaged, shortened, but it’s still there, it stretches proudly behind her head, through her white hair, unlike the missing right one that sits on her skull like a broken crown.

“I suppose not.” Josephine says softly. Her hand hovers in the air for a moment, as if she wants to reach out, to offer comfort, but in the end she places it back on her clipboard and Adaar is glad for it.

She doesn’t really know how to receive comfort. Not from someone she hasn’t known for years. It only makes her miss her Valo-Kas more fiercely.

“There is… another matter I would like to clarify…” the ambassador adds and her tone is a little more detached now, professional maybe. “On some of the records you are being referred as Katari Adaar and on others only as Adaar…”

“Katari is one name. Adaar is another.” she explains, setting her now finished staff aside.

“Is it common in Vashoth culture to have several names?” Josephine asks in a polite curious tone. The question is not meant to cause offense, she supposes, she is genuinely curious.

“It differentiates us from Qunari. Quanari don’t have names, only functions.” She lets her eyes roam above the fire, spots Cassandra’s figure talking to Cullen near another campfire. “Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth choose names that represent us when we are old enough to understand. I was born Herah, my father’s choice.”

“What does it mean?” The ambassador seems genuinely interested. Her clipboard lies forgotten on her knees so Adaar forces herself to relax and leans back on her hands.

“Time.” she translates, even if it isn’t as accurate as she would have like. “My mother was a Saarebas, he was her Arvaarad.” The words mean nothing to Josephine Montilyet, she can tell, but she doesn’t offer further clarifications. She doesn’t want to explain the forbidden romance or the unforgiving nature of the Qun. “They fled when they realize she was pregnant. It was time. _Herah_.”

Time to choose.

“It is a beautiful name.” Josephine whispers, as if not to break the rhythm of the tale. The ambassador is waiting for the rest of the story now and she finds she doesn’t have it in her to refuse the woman. What’s the point? Leliana must already have figured out a version of it, she might as well tell her side.

“It was. I wore it for fifteen years.” she offers. “They were not always easy but I can say they were happy. Then, Herah was no more.”

“What happened?” the ambassador almost pleads before remembering herself. “If it isn’t too personal a question…”

It _is_ too personal a question.

Adaar finds herself tightening the knot of her antaam-saar on her wrist even though it doesn’t really need to be adjusted.

“The Ben-Hassraths found us when I was fifteen. My parents refused to submit and were killed. They captured me and would have brought me in to re-educate me if…” Her voice trail off. _Saarebas_ , the voice whispers again and she closes her eyes, aware that purple sparks are dancing on her skin. She can taste the lightning tickling her tongue… She licks her lips, feels for the familiar dent of the scar on her mouth… A saw, a needle, blood and the sound of her own voice screaming. That’s what she remembers from that day. “Katari was born that day.”

“I am _so_ very sorry…” Josephine says and, this time, she does reach out and places her hand on her arm. _Despite_ the sparks that still dance on her skin like a more protective armor than anything their smith could give her to replace her antaam-saar.

Maybe, she decides, the ambassador is braver than she looks.

“Katari means the one who brings death.” she states flatly. It is dangerous to reveal that much, of course. Humans forced the tranquil rite on mages for less than that and she still does not trust them.

She wonders, though, if being a tranquil is better than being chained with her mouth sewn shut or her tongue cut.

“I was on my own for a while before the Valo-Kas found me.” she concludes. “I became Adaar a while after that. It means weapon.”

_Adaar_ is just as lethal a name but it is also safer. A weapon can hurt or protect, strike or deflect, remain sheathed or be brandished.

_Katari_ knows no mercy. _Katari_ hunts down Ben-Hassrath agents before they hunt her down. _Katari_ kills first and asks question later. _Katari_ is one with the storm that dances under her skin…

She is either.

She is both.

Red Vitaar on her face and lighting at her fingertips.

“And now you are Herald.” Josephine comments with far more discernment than she would have given her credit for. Not because she doesn’t think the ambassador clever but because humans understand little of the ways of her kind. Names are weapons. Names are cloaks.

“Now I am Herald.” she confirms. And she smiles a little because, for the first time, the word settles on her shoulders the right way. 

The ambassador smiles back. “I will make sure they know you as Katari Adaar, the Herald of Andraste.”

There was no mention of _Herah_ and for that she is grateful. Herah is for her and her alone, not for Thedas to consume.

“It does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” she jokes.

The moment is too solemn for her taste and she is happy to see Cassandra approach them. She is less happy that Cullen is still with her. She doesn’t mind the man too much but his templar past makes her cautious. Truth be told, she is happy that the Order doesn’t seem in any hurry to join them and she is determined to go to the mages as soon as the leaders will agree on it.

“I think you will do great things, Lady Adaar.” Josephine whispers with a slight bow of her head, before smiling at the newcomers in welcome, her tone just as polished as usual. “Lady Cassandra! Commander Cullen! Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

Adaar is quiet again as they settle down, attentive to her surroundings. There is a new understanding between her and the ambassador, she thinks, another possible friendship. Yet she is still wary. She accepts the flask of wine Cullen passes around with a nod of thanks but she doesn’t go out of her way to speak.

If any of them finds her silence odd or disturbing, they do not mention it.

Then again, both the Seeker and the Commander are military people. They understand.

And perhaps, she believes, perhaps those people can become a new Valo-Kas.

Perhaps. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! Let me know!


End file.
